


Ill Winds

by lilacs (flower_filled_hell)



Series: Memoirs of the Hexes [1]
Category: Hex Project (D&D)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 17:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flower_filled_hell/pseuds/lilacs
Series: Memoirs of the Hexes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208159
Kudos: 2





	Ill Winds

Darkness, the shroud of the night sky, that which welcomes the creatures to hide their shame and hurt away in its comforting arms. Once again, it cradles a child under the starlight, even as he tries to hideaway beneath the fabric of a hastily built tent. Breathing unsteady, lips trembling, sweat soaking through the back of a pale and worn shirt. The sands and rubble of a fight remain where once the carapace of spiders laid. It was mostly a successful fight. Mostly.

But that is not enough.

Cold wind blows along, lapping against the curves of the tent, but there is no salvation there. No cold could soothe the body hot with anguish, with the frustration of not saving _everyone_. 

There's muttering now, a foreign voice to any who eavesdrop, a foreign language to those that reside in the oasis. But the source belongs only to the lost, their own demons speaking through the same tongue they speak with kindness.

A failure. They say.

Like always, such a failure.

The smooth brown and blue locks start deforming, shifting into a growing mass that shrouds their whole frame, then taming itself once more. Frayed, and messy, but familiar.

Patch work colored hands start to shift and grow, fingers bending in strange ways as nails claw into a face that isn't there.

Useless thing. The voice taunts.

You couldn't save yourself, why did you think you could save anyone else?

His chest is heaving, whole folded up body writhing from phantom pains that will never leave him. Haunting him still at any mishap he creates. There's a new voice, familiar. It is begging, pleading, while incomprehensible, the notion is there. It asks for forgiveness.

The taunting voice returns, scolding, disappointed. But not like a parent, no, like a master speaking to a misbehaving dog. There is not a shred of mercy, not an ounce of recognition that they are merely... a child.

Skin starts to shift, mauve and warm tan skin dance with sheet white, a physical display of his struggle. Panic sets in when they realize how bad this would turn out if he did not stop now.

Stop. They tell themselves in their broken voice. Stop. Crying. They start to scratch at their throat. Stop it.

Unintentionally, his breathing is obstructed. The choking sounds and sobbing start to blossom from their chest-

"Eranthis?" Familiar, grounding. A voice calls from outside the tent. A striking of a bell kind of clarity washes over them.

Someone stands there, someone- someone...

"Yes, Diandra?" He speaks, almost alarmingly clear, as if there hadn't been the sounds of anguish coming from his own mouth. As if his throat didn't sting with pain. With practiced expertise, he performs. While his digits shift back to the more proportionate version they once were, hair falling flat down against his back. It would be a perfect performance.

Unfortunately, his skin has moved.

Unfortunately, it is very obvious.

But that's... alright. Right? Maybe it was time someone knew... maybe they won't be thrown out. Maybe- No, maybe not yet. No one ever liked who they really were. There had only been one before. Was he going to risk it for that? That one small chance?

They hated gambling.


End file.
